"Our fathers came. Lifetimes agone."
Planter's good-looking face showed his amazement. Interworld flight was new, he had thought. But some unknown expedition might have tried it, succeeded, and then never returned to report.
"'Twas for fear of black Cromwell," Mantha enlarged.
"Cromwell!" echoed Planter. "The Puritan leader who fought and wiped out the English Cavaliers?"
Mantha seized on one word. "Cavaliers. Yes. Our lives were forfeit. We flew hither."
It explained everything—human beings in a world never meant for anything but amphibians, their fair complexions, their quaint but understandable speech, the crossbows that would be familiar weapons to Shakespere, Drake or Captain John Smith. Yes, it explained everything, except how pre-machine age Britishers could succeed on a voyage where eight space-ships before Planter's had failed.
"How did you fly?" demanded Planter, amazed.
Mantha shook her graying locks. "Nay, I know not. 'Twas long ago, and all records are held in the Skygor fastness."
"They stole from you?"
"After our fathers made landfall, there was war," Mantha said, her voice bitter. "The Skygors were many, and would have slain all, but thought to hold slaves. And as slaves our fathers dwelt and died, and their children after them."